


Five Times Jim Kirk Failed at Matchmaking (And One Time He Didn't)

by TAFKAB



Category: Star Trek
Genre: Angst, Camping, Cuddling, Dancing, Gifts, Happy Ending, M/M, Matchmaking, Mistletoe, Parties, Sad Bones, Sharing Body Heat, Swimming, UST, happy bones, skinnydipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-05
Updated: 2016-10-05
Packaged: 2018-08-19 18:28:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8220674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TAFKAB/pseuds/TAFKAB
Summary: Jim 'ships it.





	

**~~~FIRST ATTEMPT~~~**

“Three sets of quarters will be sufficient.” Jim Kirk beamed at the Rithian ambassador, looking guileless as a little child. 

“But four Federation representatives beamed down, yourself included. We have plenty of space to accommodate everyone individually.” The ambassador wrung his hands, twittering with anxiety. 

“My first officer and chief medical officer prefer to share. It lets them… argue… more efficiently.” He lowered his voice. “They’ll only need one bed.”

“Ahhh, say no more!” The ambassador brightened. “We have quarters for married couples, yes. I’ll be sure to assign them one such.” 

“With lots of luxuries, maybe a nice big bathtub?” Kirk wheedles. “En suite, preferably not separated from the living quarters by a wall?”

“Ahh, yes, you mean quarters for newly married couples. I will see what can be arranged.”

Scotty is nearby. He overhears and approaches Jim after a few minutes, when the Rithian has moved on. Jim glances around; nobody’s listening.

“Ten to one odds I’ll end up bunking with Dr. McCoy tonight,” Scott offers the wager quietly. “Or Mr. Spock at twenty to one. There are two beds in my quarters, y’see.”

“I won’t take that bet. What sort of captain would I be if I gambled on hookups among the crew?”

Scott shakes his head, refusing to back down. “Ye’d be a matchmaker, an incorrigible meddler, and an awful mischief. The sort o’captain who’d only book three rooms because he thought it’d be a laugh to make those two glaikit wallopers bunk in together!”

Jim considers that. “It’s not a laugh; it’s meant to be. ….How much am I going to have to pay you not to tell Bones you’ve got two beds?”

Scott immediately gets a mercenary gleam in his eye. “I’ve been needin’ a new housing for the auxiliary dilithium crystals. Commander Spock says the one I have is adequate to the task, but I don’t like how it clicks when they shift into position. There’s a rattle I can’t work out. It might not function in a pinch, and then where are we?”

“Consider it done—and if you won’t tell them I made the three-room arrangement, I won’t tell Mr. Spock what you just called him.” 

“Aye,” Scott says with a wince, and wanders off with a half-salute. Jim stealthily watches the Rithian informing Spock and McCoy of their joint lodgings. Apparently Dr. McCoy’s ears turn purple if he’s embarrassed enough.

Spock would probably say it’s fascinating. 

****

Jim’s out for a morning walk—okay, he’s a nosy motherfucker, and he’s stalking the hall to check on the outcome of his attempt—when he stumbles on Bones coming out of Scotty’s room the next morning, freshly washed, a scowl on his face. 

“Why is it these damned backwater diplomats never give us enough rooms to sleep in? I had to barge in on Scotty.” His scowl deepens. “At least it turned out Scotty had an extra bed; I thought I was gonna have to sleep on the floor. He snores like a congested heifer.”

“Sorry about that, Bones. I made sure to specify four rooms.” Kirk shrugs and gives Bones a winsome smile. Dammit, is he going to have to stay with Scotty himself next time? 

“At least he had the good sense to bring down a bottle of booze.” McCoy huffs, dismissing his irritation. “If we’re stuck here again tonight, Jim, you’ll have to come and help us finish it off.”

“That’s a deal, Bones.” Jim accompanies his CMO gloomily to breakfast, where Spock sits eating some sort of appalling bran concoction, looking fresh and rested as a daisy.

Damn it.

**~~~SECOND ATTEMPT~~~**

The ship’s Christmas party is really more of a secular affair; there are dozens of religions and lifestyle choices represented aboard the Enterprise, so the decorations are an insane mishmash of everything that can be imagined, all ranged around a giant “Christmas tree” Scotty rigged from scrap metal and decorated with LEDs that cycle through a variety of garish colors. 

The only thing Jim’s concerned with is his sole contribution to the explosion of clutter in the room: a big sprig of mistletoe with lots of waxy white berries. Real mistletoe, the kind he used to wish for on the plains, the kind you’d have to shoot down out of a tree. He’d had it shipped in at considerable expense in hopes the real item would prove more effective than the fake plastic stuff. 

He disassembled the massive clump of vegetation himself and got Chekov and Sulu to help him tie ribbons on it and hang bits of it literally everywhere. It’s possible he went a little overboard; despite the crowd, the places where he hung it are mostly empty. The effect is one of random clear spaces amidst a tightly-packed throng, where people sidle carefully around small but very well-defined openings in order to get through a door or take some hors d’oeuvres or fill a cup of punch.

Every now and then somebody will make use of the mistletoe the way it was intended. If he’s not vastly mistaken he saw Uhura lay one on Scotty earlier. Now Scotty’s nearly as red as his shirt, flustered and gesturing to Keenser, who seems… jealous. 

Kirk winces and shakes his head with amazement. He does _not_ want to know.

“I spiked the punch,” he tells Bones helpfully when he sees Spock negotiating the buffet table, taking great care to keep the absolute maximum amount of neutral space between himself and the mistletoe at all possible times. “You should get some.”

“Damn good idea.” Bones brightens and wanders off to make a raid on the punchbowl.

“It won’t work, Keptin.” Chekov slides close a moment later. 

“You’re just saying that because you have a bet against it.”

“I’m saying that because Nurse Chapel is superwising the buffet table. No way will Mr. Spock go near the mistletoe with her so close.”

Jim’s heart sinks; Chekov’s right.

“Mr. Chekov, go right now and ask Nurse Chapel to dance.” He pauses. “That’s an order.”

Chekov scuttles off to do his captain’s bidding, but it’s no good. Spock and Bones both shy around their respective sprigs of mistletoe like skittish horses circling live rattlesnakes. They’re very careful not to look at each other in the process.

“I’ll have my winnings now,” Scott appears out of the crowd, one palm extended.

“Looks to me like you already got your compensation with Lieutenant Uhura,” Kirk mutters, but he ponies up the bet. 

“You should relax and enjoy the party. It’s not going to happen,” Scotty claps him on the back and leads him off to get some punch.

The setup is very neat; Kirk’s maneuvered in front of the table before he remembers why he shouldn’t be there and triumphant hooting arises from all around.

“Merry Christmas, Jim!” Bones drags him aside and busses him on the cheek quite soundly. “Serves you right for putting that goddam pestilential plant everywhere.” He raises his voice. “OK, people, the captain’s fair game!”

“It was too obvious.” Sulu whispers. He’s one of the first in line, and Jim turns beet red as the helmsman goes for a quick peck on the lips, not on the cheek. “You’re going to have to be more subtle.”

Kirk sighs, accepting kiss after kiss. Sulu’s right, dammit. 

**~~~THIRD ATTEMPT~~~**

Kirk starts making preparations not long after Christmas. He orders a case of Risan _gioia,_ an intoxicant that raises endorphin levels, making humans lose their inhibitions and become exceptionally happy. He starts looking for a time and place to have the biggest, best shore leave party ever. Surely Bones will drink the stuff if Jim puts it in front of him.

He finds his chance when Starfleet grants them three weeks’ shore leave on Delta. Eager to try again, he makes arrangements for mass beam-downs. The planet’s in well-charted, friendly space, the natives are sexy as hell and friendly to boot, and Starfleet books them a nice rustic lodge facility on the verge of a clear, blue lake, with meeting areas out in the open and lots of secluded nooks for romance. Boating, hiking, riding the local equivalent of horses…. He makes sure that Spock and McCoy will be lodged next to one another, too. 

It’s just the sort of place Bones loves, and he’s willing to wager Spock will like it, too. The CSO has a fascination with lakes; he never saw much water growing up on Vulcan and he’s charmed by it now, though he doesn’t much like to let on. 

Starfleet’s willing to ensure there’s plenty of food for everyone, and a little booze, too; Kirk takes care to ensure there’ll be plenty of wood for bonfires and canoes for boating and fishing. 

He assigns Bones and Spock to the same shore leave party as himself, and cordially accompanies them down.

“Wow,” Bones says, gazing at the white-capped mountains ringing the lake. “Smell that air! Reminds me of Tahoe back on Earth, but without all the kitsch and the gambling.” 

Spock nods cordial agreement; for once the two of them can’t seem to find anything to fight about, and Jim’s gratified that his plan is working so well. 

“Dr. McCoy!” Yeoman Barrows steps near, giving Bones a blinding megawatt smile that he returns with considerable interest. “Isn’t it lovely? So romantic!” She seizes his elbow and leads him away, simpering, her voice sweet and bell-like. Thwarted, Jim grinds his teeth.

Spock picks up his overnight case and coolly walks away toward the lodge.

Scotty bumps Kirk with an elbow, cordial. “Y’need to do more research, Jim. I coulda told ye she’d be a problem.”

It is. Jim can’t pry Barrows away from Bones’s elbow with a crowbar, and Bones isn’t inclined to be helpful. 

But Bones is happy here. Jim doesn’t even need to break out the joy-juice. When the crew gathers around a huge bonfire, Bones is right there, laughing and smiling and dancing. He helps out with an impromptu karaoke session, hamming it up and even taking the lead vocals now and then, dancing and stomping and sharing the mic with Sulu. 

“Would you look at that,” Lieutenant Uhura mutters quietly—she’s next to Scotty, who’s busy watching Kirk stew in his own juices. 

Jim follows her gaze to find Spock standing just outside the ring of light cast by the campfire, cast half in shadow by the trunk of a huge fir. His eyes are fixed on McCoy; he stands very still, following the doctor with his gaze, watching him at play. 

McCoy abandons the mic and joins the dancing, astonishingly lithe and light of foot. He swings Yeoman Barrows on his arm, laughing and serenading her. Firelight gleams on him, gilding him. She beams up at him, looking irresistibly kissable. 

Jim’s had all he can stand. “Uhura, I don’t care what it takes. Would you please see to it Yeoman Barrows is recalled to the ship at once? I’ll give her a double leave shift next time. A triple. Hell, I’ll give her a commendation and send her home to see her mother.” 

“Captain.” She bites her lip. “That’s not exactly ethi—“

“Lieutenant, you’re welcome to look up my approach to the Kobayashi Maru,” Kirk snaps through gritted teeth. “You’ll find it filed under “James T. Kirk doesn’t give a rat’s ass for ethics. He cares about winning, when winning matters most.”

Her dark eyes flash at him, disapproving.

“Not for myself, damn it.” He keeps his voice low. “For them. For _him._ ” He nods toward Spock. 

Spock’s stillness is so intense it’s nearly palpable—the stillness of a deer that will bolt at any instant. 

Uhura regards the tableau silently; Jim watches as she computes things and comes to a decision. She nudges Scotty.

“Level five diagnostic checks ought to do it. Let me call Keenser first and have him plant a bug in her console.” Scotty flips out his communicator and begins to mutter.

Bones is laughing as an old-fashioned fiddle tune comes on the PA, his head thrown back. He abandons Barrows and calls to the crew, rapidly organizing a square dance. He starts running figures, amused by the stumbling antics of the crewmembers he’s bullied into dancing. He grabs Chapel and swings her gracefully, then moves on to the next partner and the next, calling out commands, undeterred when the crew makes a hash of them. 

Uhura catches Barrows’s arm and draws her out of the dance, talking fast; in a minute, sparkles take them both as they beam up. Damn, now Jim’s gonna owe Uhura a commendation and a visit home for spoiling her shore leave, too. 

Jim’s never seen Bones like this, glowing with happiness, unrestrained and charming, absolutely bursting with vitality. Hell, if Bones was always like this, Jim would’ve snapped him up for himself years ago. ….Maybe he _could_ be like this more of the time, for the right person.

That can’t be Barrows.

It _can’t._

She’s gone, and Bones is still happy. That’s enough evidence, right?

Bones steps out of the dance, looking around, his eyes sparkling. He gestures for Jim and Scotty. “Come on, join in!”

Spock slides subtly deeper into shadows so as not to be noticed, his gleaming eyes still visible, the firelight briefly catching the severe planes of his face. 

Bones is laughing. “Where’s Spock? I want to see him try this. Spock? Get your skinny green self out here!”

Jim glances back toward the tree, but by this time, Spock is gone, spooked by being named aloud. None the wiser, Bones starts trying to teach Chekov the difference between the do-si-do and the _csárdás_ , which seems to be similar, only with a lot more kicking. 

Kirk sighs and lets his forehead thump down onto the wooden picnic table. He picks it up and thumps it down again.

Compassionate, Scotty pats his shoulder and fetches him a beer.

**~~~FOURTH ATTEMPT~~~**

Jim gives up on social functions and decides to get super-sneaky. He leaves the festivities that night before they’re over and gathers camping supplies for three, along with maps, supplies, and food.

He springs the request on Spock and Bones at breakfast: a plan to go on a little trip all their own while the rest of the crew stays here. They’ll go hiking, fishing, swimming—they’ll get away from it all, just the three of them. Maybe Kirk can even squeeze in a little rock climbing.

“What do you say?”

They exchange cautious glances. “Well, Jim, if we let you go all by yourself you’ll probably break your damn fool neck,” Bones fusses. “At least this way I can keep you alive while he carries you out.”

Spock raises a brow, but it seems to be settled. Before the morning gets much older, they’re all loaded down with packs. Jim leads them into the woods with confidence, Bones in the middle and Spock bringing up the rear. They walk for most of the day before they settle on a lakeside campsite in a nook where they’ll get plenty of sunshine.

Jim peels down to just his skivvies, takes a dip, and lies out on the rocks next to the lake. The water’s absolutely crystal clear, and you can see the stones on the bottom so plainly you’d think you could reach in and touch them, but really they’re about sixty feet down. 

After a few minutes Bones joins him—he strips down like Jim, a rare event indeed. He spends the first half hour fussing about sunscreen before he settles in to nap. They’re both so pale they could probably be seen from outer space. After they get hot, they take a swim in the lake to cool off. Spock’s nowhere to be found. 

Jim wonders if Spock is hiding in the woods, peeking. 

“Where’s Spock keeping himself?” He opened one eye and asked, off-hand.

“Last thing I know he was scanning rock formations about half a mile from here with his tricorder.”

“I told him to leave that damn thing back at the lodge.”

“He said he thought there might be a vein of unusually large rhodolite garnets in one of the cliff faces.”

Spock keeps himself out from underfoot until dinnertime, but he comes back with a handful of unfaceted garnets he’s plucked out of a streambed. Some of them are the size of a hen’s egg; a few still have rock crusted around them. Kirk watches McCoy sort through them. He holds one up to the setting sun; it fits perfectly inside his palm. Its smoky red is marred by a few natural inclusions, but it’s mostly clear, the deep red of venous blood. “Amazing,” he says. “You just picked this up?”

Spock nods and accepts the bag of stones back, tucking it into his pack. Kirk notes the one Bones liked best goes into a separate pocket. He doesn’t let on. He’d bet against any odds Scotty cares to set that Leonard Horatio McCoy is going to wind up in possession of that fucking garnet at some point, come hell or high water. 

They eat dinner, watch the stars for a while, and prepare to sleep. The tent’s tiny—though Jim wouldn’t ever admit he chose it on purpose. 

“Spock, you’d better take the middle. You need the extra insulation.” He flops down, taking the left side, and zips up the window flap. 

They settle in. He hears Leonard yawn; he hears rustling as his friends settle in. Spock’s eyes will be open; he doesn’t close them to sleep. He says he has a nictitating membrane that keeps his eyeballs moist, but it’s just kind of disturbing; when he’s sleeping, he looks like he’s dead. 

Jim doesn’t want to get caught peeking, so he waits till he has to climb out and take a leak to have his look.

Spock is very tidily composed, lying on his back with his hands folded over his belly. He _does_ look like a corpse. Like a vampire corpse, fish-belly white in the moonlight, ready to rise.

McCoy’s lying pressed against him from shoulder to ankle—with his face turned away. 

Kirk sighs and goes out to water a tree.

*****

McCoy and Spock argue as they get up. They argue as they make breakfast. They argue while they strike camp. They argue while McCoy’s fishing off a fallen log. They argue while they pick their way up the shoulder of a mountain and down the other side. They argue while Bones fries fish for lunch. They snipe and carp and tease and nag each other. They argue while they hike; they argue while they make camp. They argue while the night falls, stars appearing one by one. 

They’re not mad, as far as Kirk can tell. He thinks they’re fighting just to keep from being polite and soft and vulnerable with one another. The sexual tension’s so goddamned thick you could cut it with a knife.

They pause their arguing every now and again to point out something particularly idiotic Jim’s done. Like plan this trip, maybe.

Kirk facepalms at his own optimistic stupidity and prays for lightning to strike. 

It does, sort of.

It’s colder that night, and when he wakes up to piss, Bones has curled around Spock, one arm wrapped across his belly, his face tucked awkwardly against Spock’s shoulder. His mouth is open, and Jim knows Spock can feel Bones’s slow, warm breath through the cloth of his shirt. One of McCoy’s thighs is crooked over Spock’s.

Spock lies very, very still and stares at the roof of the tent. It’s not apparent whether he’s asleep or wakeful. Whatever’s in his mind, he’s not talking.

*****

As the days pass, they settle into a more or less comfortable routine. 

Even Spock gets ripe after a while without showers, and in a day or two he departs with the announcement he means to bathe in the lake. When he does it, Bones stays within arm’s length of Jim at all times, trying to seem careless as he encourages Jim to do something—anything—other than follow Spock down to the water.

He gets Bones down there anyway, complaining about having lost his comm badge (which he actually has tucked safely in his pocket). Bones brings his towel, but he won’t swim. He won’t take off a stitch with Spock watching, not even his shoes. Instead he goes wandering along the shore, staring doggedly down at the scree where the water laps. He picks up little freshwater shells, driftwood twigs, seed pods that floated in on the wavelets, and interestingly-colored stones that’ll turn dull and unexceptional when they dry out. 

Spock finishes his bath in a hurry and dresses again while McCoy carefully finds an uprooted stump fraught with interest. 

Spock quickly makes himself scarce.

Later McCoy’s eyes linger on Spock as he builds their fire and puts water on to boil for cocoa. Jim sees him swallow hard several times; his hands are white-knuckled on the stick when they toast marshmallows. He and Spock argue about the correct way to pronounce the name. Kirk rolls his eyes to the heavens. 

The next day McCoy rolls his ankle and Spock makes him a hiking pole out of a lightweight sapling tree; he’s very adept with their camping hatchet. He watches McCoy with care as they go about their activities all day, helping when it’s needed.

Spock’s head turns toward McCoy as he sleeps that night; his chin rests against McCoy’s forehead. There is no other change in their posture. It’s skin touching skin, though, and Kirk thinks that’s probably tantamount to two humans sharing a sleeping bag stark naked.

Kirk decides it means Spock went to sleep looking at McCoy lying nestled up to him; it’s become their normal sleeping posture after Bones spent a day bitching because he couldn’t rest well lying on his right side. 

But Kirk can’t be sure whether it means anything. Probably not. 

At least they aren’t fighting while they’re asleep.

**~~~FIFTH ATTEMPT~~~**

Kirk’s almost out of ideas, but he has one more ace up his sleeve. 

He manages to coax both his friends into going skinny-dipping the next night. Two of the moons are full, and the lake is awash in bright soft radiance, filled with luminous velvety water that seems to absorb the moonlight and stretch down for miles. 

They disrobe under the shadows of the firs, Spock and Bones carefully turning their backs on one another. The two of them watch their feet intently as they wade out, exposed in the ghostly moonlight.

Both of them glow softly, pale; there’s no obvious difference in their complexions under this gentle illumination. They swiftly sheathe themselves in water, which kindly conceals all but the wavering outline of bodies, of bare flesh. Jim’s naked too, but they don’t seem to see that when they look at him—and they try way too hard not to look at one another.

It was a hot day and there’s still some relief to be had, at first, in immersing themselves in the cool water. Jim floats, moving as little as possible, and gazes down at the stones so far below, looking much closer, as if his toes could stretch to touch them. Spock seems restive, as if simply floating and looking up at the sky or the velvet-shadowed mountain ranges cradling the lake in the valley bowl is not a sufficiently logical motive for being in the middle of a lake, naked and wet. 

Way across the lake the light of another bonfire glows red-gold by the lodge; the faintest hint of the crew singing can sometimes be heard. Jim wonders if McCoy wishes he were back there. He’s sculling lightly, staying near Jim, not floating on his back (no, that’d expose him to Spock’s eyes; of course he isn’t), but he’s looking up at the moons and at the few stars that are bright enough to shine in the same sky with them. 

It’s one of the most beautiful moments Jim’s ever experienced, and having his two best friends with him makes it all the sweeter. 

They don’t talk much that night. When they finally get cold, they climb out and lie down on big smooth rocks that still bake out the day’s heat, drying and warming their chilled flesh. Spock comes to lie between Jim and Bones like the placement has become natural to him. Bones clears his throat, uncomfortable, and makes room. Then he turns over onto his belly, leaving his pale ass gleaming in the moonlight. 

Kirk thinks he doesn’t have anything to be ashamed of. He’s a bit older, of course, but he’s still handsome, lean and well-muscled, with an attractive dusting of dark hair on his chest. His skin is the faintest bit looser than a young man’s, but it’s not unpleasant.

Spock lies on his back and gazes at the sky, stark naked, his genitals quiescent in their nest of dark hair. He seems quite unabashed. 

Of course, Spock has better biocontrol than Bones, who looks somewhat uncomfortable, shifting and fidgeting, trying to compensate for something beneath him. He might just be lying on a rough spot in the rock, but Jim doesn’t think so. 

Jim catches both of them stealing glances at one another whenever they don’t think anyone’s looking. 

They troop back to the tent quietly, Bones arising last and bringing up the rear. He delays for a while before he enters the tent. Spock lies calmly next to Jim, leaving room for him.

Jim’s fading toward sleep by the time Bones finally comes to bed, fussing under his breath about the cold.

*****

The next morning they wake up very late; the sun is well over the horizon, and the interior of the tent is heating up. As he reaches for his jeans, Jim notices neither of his friends bothered to put on anything more substantial than undershorts before bed. Bones’s head is entirely pillowed on Spock’s bare shoulder; Spock’s left arm is curved around him, protective. Their legs lie tangled beneath both their sleeping bags. Bones’s arm rests on Spock’s lean, soft-furred belly. His palm covers a dusky olive nipple.

They’re breathtaking: beautiful, ethereal, peacefully united by sleep in a way Jim’s never seen them before, but always guessed they could be. 

They spring apart guiltily when Jim wakes them for breakfast, and both of them blush like crazy. Jim notices Bones is sporting an impressive case of morning wood. He wonders what that felt like via telepathy. He wonders if Spock watched himself wander through McCoy’s very human dreams, and what he learned there. 

Bones’s face and neck go bright red; he’s humiliated. 

Spock gives no sign of reaction one way or another.

Five minutes later, Bones is dressed in every thread of clothing he brought along. He takes his embarrassment out on Spock, tearing strips out of him for brewing tea instead of coffee. His anger gets way out of proportion to the infraction of providing insufficient access to morning caffeine. Spock turns cold as winter snow in response. 

The two of them sleep stiffly, somehow without touching, for the next six days, their waking interactions alternating between passive aggression, frosty silence, and savage games of cat and mouse complete with vociferous carping and razor-sharp rebuttals. 

The only time they agree is when they condemn Jim for his intention to spend a day rock climbing. 

He climbs a nice, steep rockface anyway, just to get the hell away from them for a few hours.

By the time they all beam back aboard the Enterprise, tanned and whiskery and, in Bones’s words, “ornery as sore-tailed cats,” Jim’s ready to scream. 

**~~~SIXTH ATTEMPT~~~**

Jim gives up on matchmaking after the failed camping trip; he decides trying to nudge Bones and Spock together just makes everybody miserable. He gloomily goes to Scotty and pays up on his substantial gambling debts. 

“I’m sorry t’hear your plan went awry,” Scott seems sympathetic despite the hefty sum of his winnings. “I’ll have to say, I hoped ye knew what ye were about, even if common sense said I’d best bet against ye.”

Life goes on; they resume their mission and get back to work. 

McCoy never says anything when Scotty submits paperwork approving Tonia Barrows’ transfer to another ship. Kirk wonders if he should stop the transfer, but it’s a promotion for Barrows and McCoy doesn’t seem upset about it. He lets the change happen.

After a few months the egg-shaped garnet makes its inevitable appearance, newly polished and gleaming; it takes up residence on McCoy’s desk. He uses it as a paperweight. Kirk mentions it and McCoy picks it up defensively, scowling.

“I found it sitting here one day after Spock was in,” he says shortly. “I suppose he left it as a peace offering.” He shrugs, dismissive, but he puts it down very gently. 

“Bones—“

“I’m gonna have to ask you to leave well enough alone this time, Jim.” Bones’s tone is matter-of-fact, but his eyes look weary, a little haunted.

Kirk subsides. 

McCoy avoids the bridge. When he has to be there, he doesn’t talk much to Spock. It kills Jim to realize how much his meddling damaged the friendship that existed between them before. It worries him that they aren’t able to work together as well as they used to. They were damned good together. 

When Christmas rolls around again, Kirk gives the festivities his blessing, but he doesn’t try to contribute to the décor. He lets everyone else plan the party instead, then gets himself a seat in a corner where he can watch. He refuses to put money on any of Scotty’s proposed wagers. 

He does accept a gift, a bottle of decent brandy from Sulu, and he plans his eventual siege on its contents as he sits sipping fruit juice and watching Bones.

No Spock. No Barrows. No singing, no dancing, no karaoke. McCoy’s not happy like he was a few months ago; he sits alone at a little table, scowling, muttering to himself occasionally. Kirk wonders how long before Bones walks up to him with his own set of transfer request papers in his hand. 

He wonders how much of that choice will be his own fault. 

Spock drifts among the crew, doing his best to mingle. He’s pretty damned inept at it; his air of aloof, poised formality functions as a damper on the party no matter where he goes. Jim guesses he’s probably discussing work business with whoever he walks up to. 

Finally he winds up sitting down with Kirk, who doesn’t mind; his party experience couldn’t be much gloomier. 

Both of them sit there drinking fruit juice while they try not to look at Bones. 

“I’m sorry, Spock,” Kirk says after a while. “I didn’t mean to fuck things up for the two of you. I won’t meddle again.”

“I do not know to what you are referring.” Spock looks far too bland, too smooth-faced. 

Kirk sighs and sips the juice without bothering to clarify. He’s promised himself he can flee at 2300; that’ll be enough time that he can go without looking like a jerk. He’ll tackle the brandy in his quarters. 

Someone puts a slow dance tune on the PA and various crewmen get up, coupling off. They step out into the center of the room to sway together. Kirk scowls down into his glass. He wishes the time would pass faster. 

A sudden stillness startles him as everyone within a few feet draws breath and holds it. 

He glances up to find its source. Bones is standing by Spock, his hand extended, palm up. It is rock-steady.

“C’mon, Spock.” Bones’s voice is gruff. “Are you gonna sit there like a knot on a log, or are you going to dance with me?”

Kirk hangs fire, breath frozen in his chest.

Spock considers the offer for a moment, his eyes hooded.

Then he reaches out and places his hand in McCoy’s. Kirk can’t pry his eyes from the sight of their fingers sliding together, folding into a clasp as intimate as a kiss. 

“Very well, doctor.” Spock answers quietly, and rises, his hand still joined with McCoy’s. 

They step onto the floor cautiously, and McCoy speaks a word or two; Spock nods and lets him lead. They touch, awkward, then settle tentatively, feet moving.

A space forms around them. Considerate crewmen look at them, eyes wide, then smile and turn their gazes away politely. 

They dance for a time, their dark heads close together. After a few minutes McCoy tugs Spock closer, eliminating the stiff distance between them, and lays his head on Spock’s shoulder. Kirk can see him sigh, the fall of his shoulders as tension leaves him. Spock’s hands drift around his back and settle. 

A rift deep at the heart of the ship is healing; it’s subtle, but everyone seems to relax, the entire crew somehow sensing it. 

Kirk catches Uhura’s eye; she’s choosing the music. He makes a “keep it going” gesture, finger circling, urgent. She nods, smiling. 

The slow dance music continues for a long time. McCoy and Spock remain together, moving in synchrony as if they are afraid to step apart, to look at one another, even to speak. The whole room is quiet, sounds muted, motions gentle, the crew caught in a spell of faintly breathless expectation and peace.

When the music finally ends—Jim’s chrono says it’s 2400 already; when the hell did that happen?—they slowly step apart. McCoy hangs onto Spock as the music fades, waiting until the last moment to let go; then he speaks very quietly at Spock's ear. Jim can read his lips. “I’m sorry, Spock.”

Spock answers, his back to Jim, his words lost in the buzz of the crowd. Their faces turn, and their eyes meet. McCoy speaks again, and Jim can’t make it out this time, but they drift together slowly, embracing again.

What should be awkward and embarrassing is, instead, poignant and strangely beautiful.

Jim watches McCoy’s throat bob as his eyes close; he watches Spock’s head bend forward. Their lips touch briefly, then again, lingering. Bones’s hands aren’t steady anymore, but when they settle on Spock’s waist, they rest there as if they’ve found a home. Bones opens his mouth for the third kiss, and his hands slide upward, pulling Spock closer. 

When they finally part, the two gaze into each other’s eyes for a long moment. Bones’s mouth quirks upward on one side in a self-deprecating smile. He takes Spock’s hand and they slip out together, seeming unaware of the pleased smiles that follow them. 

A hush stretches for more than a minute as the assembled crewmen eye one another in amazement and disbelief.

Kirk pushes himself to his feet at last, sudden exhilaration filling him. “What is this, a wake? Let’s get this party started!” He claps his hands together, breaking the lingering traces of the spell. Scotty’s joined Uhura, and the next song goes up in a skirl of bagpipes—a highland jig. 

Kirk bows to Yeoman Rand and tugs her out onto the dance floor as the whole place erupts in celebration.

**Author's Note:**

>  _glaikit wallopers:_ foolish idiots


End file.
